Read Online The Cases of Hildegarde Withers by Stuart Palmer - Free Book Online
Authors: Stuart Palmer
Ads: Link
Miss Withers said shortly. “But I have an excellent imagination. Coming, Oscar? This is serious. Didn’t you catc h the name? It’s Bianca Riley!”
They went speeding northward in a squad car. The car stopped momentarily at 25 Barrow Street, where it developed that Bianca’s door was locked. There was a card sticking out of the mail box, bearing the message, “Sorry Johnny ’phone you later oceans love, Bee.”
The note gave him no joy, for it was written on the back of an engraved card bearing the name “Louis Hamish, buyer, antiques and objets d’art, 241 East 34th Street.”
“She wrote she had a job she was crazy about,” the young man said, glowering. “Objets d ’ art my foot!”
“That address is obviously his office,” Miss Withers counseled as they got back into the squad car. They turned eastward from the Village, cut to Lexington and rolled north into a region of art shops, print framers, and secondhand bookstores. There was a brass plate outside the doorway of a residence on the corner — “Louis Hamish” nestling among the other plates.
“One moment,” cried Miss Withers. “I mustn’t forget my props.”
She was back in a moment, carrying a brown-paper package. Then they went up the stairs, down the hall to a door with another brass plate. There was no answer to Piper’s insistent knock.
“We can kick it down,” John Charles Robbins suggested.
And then the door of the studio was suddenly flung open in their faces, closed again as the figure of a pretty, slick-ha ired girl emerged to face them.
“Johnny!” she cried happily. “But you shouldn’t have come here — only I am glad to see you!” She started as if to kiss or to be kissed, but Johnny Robbins wasn’t having any.
“Tell me one thing, just one,” Johnny blurted. “Have you been here all night?” His tone was brittle.
Bianca’s cheeks flamed. “Yes, of course. I tried to ’phone the hotel I thought you’d be at. I left a note at home.”
But Cadet Robbins wasn’t listening. Saying some things in deep bitterness of spirit, the Army turned on its hee l and made a dignified retreat.
Bianca started to re-enter the studio.
“Come, Oscar,” said Miss Withers, and they pushed inside after the girl. Then they stopped.
They were in a big, square room, almost totally unfurnished. ‘ From a big skylight in the ceiling light poured down on an enormous easel, which held, securely faste ned to it, a small picture of a bewhiskered young man in a blue hat.
Before that easel, on a high stool, perched a little old man in a big apron, wearing a jeweler’s eye-piece. He held razor blades, a tiny sponge, a handful of brushes and a bottle.
At one side, stretched out in a camp chair and sipping a cup of coffee, was a drowsy man with the long-beaked face of an eagle. He looked up at the newcomers without interest. “Nice to see you, Inspector. But we’re busy right now — and I’ve told you everything I know about last night.”
“Yeah?” said the Inspector, with definite belligerence.
Hamish snapped his fingers. “All right, Etienne. Come back in half an hour when we can concentrate.”
Hamish took his place on the stool. “Go on, I’m listening.”
Miss Withers whispered swiftly to the Inspector. “Yes — well, Mr. Hamish, I’d like to know just how long it has been since you paid a visit to the home of the late Dr. Brotherly?”
The man dabbed lovingly with the sponge. “The answer is easy,” he said. “Never.”
Again the Inspector allowed himself to be prompted. “What you say sort of clinches things, Hamish. The one who killed Brotherly knew him well enough to know that he bought a green Buddha some weeks ago, but not well enough to know that Brotherly had fifty of the things at home!”
“Go on,” Hamish said wearily. “I have an appointment, but it can wait.”
“You see,” Piper continued, “this Dr. Brotherly had stumbled across what he thought might be a valuable painting on
They went speeding northward in a squad car. The car stopped momentarily at 25 Barrow Street, where it developed that Bianca’s door was locked. There was a card sticking out of the mail box, bearing the message, “Sorry Johnny ’phone you later oceans love, Bee.”
The note gave him no joy, for it was written on the back of an engraved card bearing the name “Louis Hamish, buyer, antiques and objets d’art, 241 East 34th Street.”
“She wrote she had a job she was crazy about,” the young man said, glowering. “Objets d ’ art my foot!”
“That address is obviously his office,” Miss Withers counseled as they got back into the squad car. They turned eastward from the Village, cut to Lexington and rolled north into a region of art shops, print framers, and secondhand bookstores. There was a brass plate outside the doorway of a residence on the corner — “Louis Hamish” nestling among the other plates.
“One moment,” cried Miss Withers. “I mustn’t forget my props.”
She was back in a moment, carrying a brown-paper package. Then they went up the stairs, down the hall to a door with another brass plate. There was no answer to Piper’s insistent knock.
“We can kick it down,” John Charles Robbins suggested.
And then the door of the studio was suddenly flung open in their faces, closed again as the figure of a pretty, slick-ha ired girl emerged to face them.
“Johnny!” she cried happily. “But you shouldn’t have come here — only I am glad to see you!” She started as if to kiss or to be kissed, but Johnny Robbins wasn’t having any.
“Tell me one thing, just one,” Johnny blurted. “Have you been here all night?” His tone was brittle.
Bianca’s cheeks flamed. “Yes, of course. I tried to ’phone the hotel I thought you’d be at. I left a note at home.”
But Cadet Robbins wasn’t listening. Saying some things in deep bitterness of spirit, the Army turned on its hee l and made a dignified retreat.
Bianca started to re-enter the studio.
“Come, Oscar,” said Miss Withers, and they pushed inside after the girl. Then they stopped.
They were in a big, square room, almost totally unfurnished. ‘ From a big skylight in the ceiling light poured down on an enormous easel, which held, securely faste ned to it, a small picture of a bewhiskered young man in a blue hat.
Before that easel, on a high stool, perched a little old man in a big apron, wearing a jeweler’s eye-piece. He held razor blades, a tiny sponge, a handful of brushes and a bottle.
At one side, stretched out in a camp chair and sipping a cup of coffee, was a drowsy man with the long-beaked face of an eagle. He looked up at the newcomers without interest. “Nice to see you, Inspector. But we’re busy right now — and I’ve told you everything I know about last night.”
“Yeah?” said the Inspector, with definite belligerence.
Hamish snapped his fingers. “All right, Etienne. Come back in half an hour when we can concentrate.”
Hamish took his place on the stool. “Go on, I’m listening.”
Miss Withers whispered swiftly to the Inspector. “Yes — well, Mr. Hamish, I’d like to know just how long it has been since you paid a visit to the home of the late Dr. Brotherly?”
The man dabbed lovingly with the sponge. “The answer is easy,” he said. “Never.”
Again the Inspector allowed himself to be prompted. “What you say sort of clinches things, Hamish. The one who killed Brotherly knew him well enough to know that he bought a green Buddha some weeks ago, but not well enough to know that Brotherly had fifty of the things at home!”
“Go on,” Hamish said wearily. “I have an appointment, but it can wait.”
“You see,” Piper continued, “this Dr. Brotherly had stumbled across what he thought might be a valuable painting on
Similar Books
